


Ghosting (In the Balance)

by novelteas



Series: Ghosting [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Mental Illness, Multi, but for the record their families just are kind of ignored here, but thomas and miro die individually, i love angsty kloser fics don't you, just a lil bit, lisa and sylwia are just friends, lots of death sorry, obviously this is shameless kloser, ok the neuller is not really my thing but, okay not a lot, sorry my tags are a mess this is kind of how my tumblr tags are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelteas/pseuds/novelteas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas loses Miro first, but Miro loses Thomas more.</p><p>The five stages of grief for Thomas and Miro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> idk I just really like angsty Kloser fics and other fics in general so I had a sudden inspiration which really wasn't inspiration but . . . I hope it's sad enough. I like writing sad. That's my one forte. I think.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miro tries to remember Thomas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate myself please hate me it makes me feel better

Thomas doesn't want to deal with the ringing of his phone right now. Anyone who calls him at the ungodly hour of four in the morning deserves to be ignored. He's sleeping. They can wait.

The ringing stops, but a moment later, it continues. It won't stop. He lets it ring three or four more calls, but each time it rings again, with even more insistency, if that were even possible. 

It's more like he's annoyed with how it's affecting his sleep than it actually ringing that finally makes Thomas feel around his nightstand for the device and pick up on the sixth call.

"Hello?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.

It's Basti. "Thomas, thank God. I was hoping you'd pick up."

"Great," he says, sleepily. "Are you really so thirsty you couldn't wait until the sun at least came up?"

"Thomas," Basti says, and suddenly Thomas is awake, because that word sounds so serious that it's as if someone just smacked him across the face.

"What is it?" he demands, immediately awake. A hand of icy fear creeps its way into his chest, wrapping around his heart. 

"Miro."

Two syllables, and Thomas goes straight from lying flat on his back with his eyes closed, to standing and getting dressed, his phone nestled between his ear and shoulder. 

"Shit," he says. "Does Sylwia know?"

"She's the one that called me," Bastian says. Thomas feels the fear rising in his throat. He didn't think it was possible for Basti to sound so serious. 

"I'm coming." Thomas pulls on his shirt, the rest of his clothes, getting tangled in the dark.

"Thomas, I don't - "

"It's fine," he says, ignoring whatever Basti has to say. "What happened?"

"He and Sylwia were out for dinner together," Basti says, his voice devoid of any sort of joy that it usually has. "They were coming back, crossed the road, someone ran a red light and didn't stop afterwards. Sylwia called an ambulance, but . . . this was all last night. The doctors did everything they could."

Thomas is too scared to be sad. No, this isn't the time to fall to his knees and ask the Heavens why. He can do that later. He has to get to Italy and say goodbye to Miro first.

• • • 

It's too early, for him. Four o'clock mornings are not fun. He's tired, already, and he's running on three hours of sleep and adrenaline.

"Miroslav Klose," he says immediately, when he gets to the front reception at the hospital. "Car crash - "

It's as if the doctors are waiting for him.They lead the way, and Thomas suddenly feels sick. He doesn't want to see Miro all pale and cold and lifeless.

And then he realizes. Miro isn't dead. No, the door the doctor's hand is on doesn't go to a frozen morgue with dead bodies slabbed in it. Miro isn't one of them. No, the door goes to a real room, and that means Miro is alive.

The doctor seems to recognize, though that Thomas is getting hopeful. 

"I wouldn't get excited," he says. His voice is heavy. "What happened last night . . . there was an incredible amount of hemorrhaging and there were some things that . . . we just couldn't fix."

Thomas pales. "Like what?"

"We don't know the extent of his amnesia quite yet, which is why you'll be good - "

No. Miro wouldn't forget about him. 

" - for him to see now, but that's not the issue, he just seems traumatized. The real issue is that when I say some things were irreversible, they really were irreversible. Miroslav has pulled through very well, but right now he's incredibly weak. And from what we've observed as the effects of the clotting and the brain damage, it's . . . highly unlikely he'll be able to do much on his own."

"But that's why he has me, right?" Thomas says, trying more to convince himself than anyone else.

The doctor smiles flatly. "There's other problems."

"It's fine," Thomas says, waving it off. He'll just make sure he takes care of Miro. It'll be fine. He opens the door.

It's everything Thomas can do not to fly straight to Miro's side and hug him. In the end it's the wires and tubes that stop him. 

It's scary. Miro is so, so pale and he looks so, so tired. His gaze is unfocused. An oxygen mask covers most of his face. The sleeves of the hospital gown turn up at the edges, pushed back by the tubing blooming out of the crook of his elbow. There's medical tape all over the backs of his hands and everything. The whole deal. Thomas is scared, but Miro is just . . . . There.

"Miro?" he whispers, forcing a smile.

His head turns a fraction of an inch, and there are his eyes, but they're still all cloudy and unfocused, and the doctor clears his throat.

"The clot was in his visual cortex," he says quietly, and Thomas feels his heart drop out from under him as the implications of the sentence sink in. "He's blind."

"Thomas?" Miro reaches up with a heavy hand to move the mask, and Thomas finds himself with his hand over Miro's, keeping the mask in place.

"Miro," Thomas says, more confident this time in tone, but inside, he's withering away. "It's me, Thomas."

Thomas feels Miro's fingers tighten around his, the tiniest fraction of a squeeze. 

"I'm here."

The doctor bows politely out of the room, and Miro reaches up again to lower the mask. Thomas doesn't stop him this time. "Thomas," he repeats. Thomas almost doesn't want to hear Miro say his name, because the way it's spoken, with a cracked voice and dry lips, isn't how he's used to Miro saying it. Miro's voice is smooth and gentle and doesn't sound brittle, about to break at any moment. "I can't see you. Are you there?"

"I'm always here," Thomas repeats, feeling tears stinging his eyes. "Don't worry. It's me."

Miro nods slowly. "I can't see you," he says, again.

"What's your best image of me?" Thomas asks, hoping that Miro will at least be able to hold onto that.

Miro thinks about it for a moment, and his face cracks into a wry smile. "When you trapped the ball under your jersey when we were in South Africa."

Thomas's jaw drops. "No way," he says, incredulous. "That's a horrible image to remember me by. What's the last image you remember of me?"

"Scoring that goal in the game on match day one. Was that against Hamburg?"

Thomas grins. "I can't believe you remember that, of everything."

"I remember other things," Miro reminds Thomas, still holding his hand. "It's not like I just forgot who you are."

"Thanks," Thomas says. Miro still loves him. Miro knows who he is. He can work with this.

• • •

It's hard for Miro, Thomas realizes. It would be a lot better if Miro had been born blind, instead of only just becoming blind two months ago. Thomas comes home from an early training one day and, judging by the open bedroom door, figures Miro has gotten up at last. The old man has been sleeping a lot longer now.

"You're up already," he calls, closing the door and tossing his training bag in the corner of the foyer. "It's Thomas." He walks further in, about to enter the bedroom when he hears it: a close-mouthed, mourning sob. The kind that you make when you don't want people to hear and ends up sounding like window cleaners. He stops just before the door, afraid of being spotted, but then he remembers that Miro is blind and moves to stand slightly in the doorway, watching. 

Miro is sitting on the edge of the bed facing away from the door, his back curved and his shoulders hunched over. He's holding something, Thomas can't see what it is. As soon as Thomas stands in the doorway, Miro turns.

"Thomas?" he says, moving to face the door. 

Thomas crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed next to Miro, who is gripping a picture frame between his two hands. Thomas is in the picture. It's the two of them after the World Cup, locked in an embrace, immortalized on a piece of film, and preserved for all eternity in a glass covering. He can see why Miro is holding it, but what concerns him are the teardrops on the frame. 

"Miro," he says soothingly, unwrapping Miro's fingers from around the frame and placing it back on the bedside table, "hey. Miro. What's wrong?"

"You're Thomas," Miro says, more for himself. Thomas affirms. "Who was in that picture? Which picture was that?"

Thomas casts another glance at the photo, like it would have changed. "It's you and me after the Cup."

"I can't see you," Miro says. Thomas finds that just because his eyes don't work, he still cries. And even though he's always been the one Miro has folded into his arms, the younger one, this time he finds himself with Miro in his arms, pressing his head into his shoulder.

• • •

It's about a year after the accident. Miro has adjusted; he can read Braille and he's got the layout of the place down well enough to navigate it without much trouble or help from Thomas. He's happier again.

They're lying in bed, next to each other. Miro has never been a fan of the word "spooning," but Basti always insists that's what they're doing (if it can be called that). Thomas is flat on his back, Miro's head pulled over and nestled in the bend of his shoulder. Their arms are sprawled out, tangled with each other; their bodies are caught halfway in between two and one. Moonlight comes in a thin shaft between the curtains over the open window, fluttering slightly in the warm air. Thomas watches the dust swirling, suspended in the glow of the light, and feels Miro's steady breath on the inside of his forearm, resting on his chest. 

"I love you," he says quietly, to the silent room. 

• • •

Miro wakes up. Even now, a year after he lost his sight, his first instinct every time he wakes up is to roll over and check the time. A sigh of frustration escapes his lips as he remembers that that's out of the question now. 

So he listens to Thomas's breathing instead, slow and calm and filling the empty space that is the silence of the room, and he feels for the cool chill of the air as it drifts in. He likes it at night, when Thomas is asleep, and he can just think.

Sometimes he thinks about images. The team, immortalized in his mind as the last game they all played in together at the World Cup, hoisting the trophy, cheering, celebrating, flashes through his mind. All the images of Sylwia, his best friend, his family, Silesia and Opole, Poland and Germany. Tonight, he thinks about the team, one of the happiest moments of his career. He sifts through names and faces. Manuel. Benedikt and Mats. Mesut. Lukas and Bastian. Sami. Philipp. The less prominent, the younger members - Erik, Julian, who else - have less defined features, but Miro keeps that to the side. Toni. Thomas - he could never forget Thomas. He replays the winning goal in his mind, remembers the substitution that saw him come off the national pitch for the last time - but when he tries to remember Mario's face, he can't place the features correctly. Something won't stop telling him that they're in the wrong places - eyes too far apart, nose the wrong shape, mouth the wrong size, hair the wrong color and style - and somehow he knows that his fear that's it's not right is justly grounded.

Panic rises in Miro's throat, and his breathing accelerates. How could he not be able to remember what Mario looks like? Mario, the same person who made the end of his international career the best he could ever have hoped for? Fear edges its way into his mind, and Miro sits up, trying to drive it out, like it will corrupt all the remaining images he has.

Thomas wakes up from the movement, moving sluggishly and sitting up, opening his eyes slowly. He sees Miro, shadowed against the light, and his hand travels to his shoulder. 

"Hey, Miro," he says. "What's up?"

Miro turns to him. His eyes are glassy and shine with tears. "I'm losing Mario," he whispers.

Thomas blinks. "What?"

"I can't remember what he looks like," he says urgently. "I have a face, but it's wrong and all the features are in the wrong place."

A distant fear of Miro forgetting what he - what Thomas - looks like edges its way into his mind. He pulls Miro into his arms and feels the shudder of every silent sob.

• • •

Every night, before they go to sleep, Thomas and Miro lie in bed, on their sides, facing each other. Miro traces Thomas's face with his fingers. Thomas makes sure Miro will never forget him.

• • •

One day, about eighteen months after the accident, Miro wakes up and realizes he doesn't remember the color of Thomas's eyes anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate myself still because i can't write and now i'm half laughing at all the pain i hope i cause


	2. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas tries to, but nothing can erase for Miro the fact that he can't see his lover's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT THERE'S A LOT OF NEULLER HERE (for the record though they're like a 3rd rate ship for me)

Thomas tells himself that it's okay. That even if Miro forgets what he looks like, they'll still love each other. And he slowly begins to believe it, that nothing has changed. 

It's unfair, Thomas thinks, dribbling the ball past the stationary obstacles. Miroslav Klose would never do anything on this level. He never did anything to deserve this shitty life of transparent images.

Once, there was a cockroach - an actual huge fucking cockroach - in the kitchen, and Thomas remembers announcing as such and asking for assistance in catching and killing it, but Miro only glanced over the top of his magazine disinterestedly and ignored him with a, "Just trap it in a jar and walk around it." Like a cockroach and a cricket were somehow on the same level. (Thomas later ended up killing the cockroach and burned it with a lighter so that Miro would think he let it out.) 

Or what about the handball? No other player would have owned up to something like that so quickly and easily, without argument. But Miro did. And what about Ghana? Thomas's mind drifts towards the memories of that World Cup that he'll never be able to forget, and that moment when he could feel all the warm blood tickling his hairline and he tried to get up whilst fighting a terrifying fog of dizziness and then Miro was there, hands cupping his face and tipping him back, and all Thomas wants now is to lie there and get the same thrill, the same rush in his chest with Miro's eyes above him, full of concern and worry and melting - 

"Müller!" 

Thomas cringes a little bit, wincing as he watches his ball veer wide of the goal. Manuel doesn't even move, opting instead to raise an eyebrow at the ball rolling pathetically off to the right and snort while Pep kicks it back to Thomas. "That was one of the worst shots I've ever seen," he reprimands. "You didn't even attempt on target."

Thomas mumbles an apology and shoots again for good measure. Manuel feints to the other side in the worst faked failure at saving that Thomas has ever witnessed, but the ball finds the back of the net and Pep grunts with approval before moving on.

Manuel scoops up the ball and walks over to Thomas, dropping it down five feet away and starting a game of keep-up. "So," he says, his eyes fixed on the ball as he taps it up with his foot a few times. "Spill."

Thomas returns the ball. "What?" he asks, feigning innocence.

Manuel fixes him with a glare. The only other person who can manage that glare is Miro. And maybe Philipp. But Miro, mostly. And getting that glare from a blind man isn't exactly the same as getting that glare from Manuel, whose eyes are a very sharp blue. (Not like Miro's though. Miro's are like ice. Manuel's are like crayons for a baby.) "Thomas, stop faking it. That ball you sent at me didn't even have a chance at the post. I'm not stupid."

"It's nothing," Thomas sighs, waving it off as he bumps the ball a few times and back to Manuel. 

"How's Miro?" Back to Thomas again.

He fumbles the ball this time, only catching it just before the ground with his other foot and lobbing it high in the air, giving him time to recover. "I - uh - Miro's fine."

The words aren't laced with sarcasm or malice or anything, when Manuel catches the ball that Thomas sends back to him in his hands. "Are you sure? I haven't heard about him in a while. How's he doing? Retirement and all that?"

"He's doing fine," Thomas snaps. He regrets it, though, seeing Manuel recoil ever so slightly at the sharpness of his words. "Sorry - I mean - I - "

Manuel glances at Pep, who's preoccupied with the defenders at the moment, and then back at Thomas. "Are _you_ okay?"

Is he okay? Thomas really doesn't know. His face drops and he shrugs. "I guess."

" _O_ kay," Manuel says. "I'm beginning to be extremely alarmed here. What's wrong, and tell me everything."

Thomas shakes his head. "I told you, everything is fine."

"Is it a relationship problem?"

"No, it's not that."

"Is it to do with his retirement?"

"Not really."

"Is this a problem between you two, or is it a problem that involves both of you but which only you are worried about?"

Thomas pauses for a moment. "Neither, really."

"So you admit there's a problem!"

"What? I - "

"Come on, Thomas," Manuel coaxes, immediately dropping the ball again and starting up the game when he sees Pep begin to turn around. "You trust me, right?"

"Mm, that's a hard one."

"Shut up. You trust me. And you look like you want to cry a lot, so tell me what's on your mind."

Thomas considers it and shakes his head again. "No, it's nothing."

Manuel groans, irritated. "You're killing me," he mutters. Suddenly he's all up in Thomas's face, yelling at him and Thomas is so shocked and confused he can't even understand what's being spat at his face. 

"What?" he asks, dumbly. His voice rises defensively. "What did I even do?"

Manuel continues yelling, attracting Pep's attention. Their coach turns around all the way and sees the two, mostly Manuel's face growing increasingly red. "Neuer! Müller! Locker rooms."

Thomas sighs. "Seriously?"

"Hey," Manuel says, pulling his gloves off, "I did it so you didn't have to worry about being overheard. And now you don't have to focus on the ball the whole time. And you need to stop looking sad. Something obviously happened with Miro."

They wait until they're inside the locker rooms and changing to continue. Thomas tugs on the sleeves of his training sweater, evening them out in an endless game of pulleys. "Miro's blind," he says, finally.

Manuel looks unimpressed. "Never figured that one out," he says dryly.

"I was just establishing the facts, God," Thomas mutters.

"Okay, so keep going."

"He says he can't remember what color my eyes are."

Manuel raises his eyebrows. "That's it?"

"You don't under _stand_ ," Thomas says, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. "He always said he would remember my eyes even when he was old and blind. If he forgets my eyes now, what could that mean? It's _me_ , Manu, it's _me_! How could he forget _me_?"

"It's not _you_ ," Manuel corrects, "it's your eyes."

"I don't even know why I'm so upset about this," Thomas says, frowning.

"How long ago was this?" Manuel asks.

"A couple of months ago, maybe two years after the accident."

Manuel gets quiet, sitting on the bench next to Thomas and looking down at their shoes. Probably thinking about what it would be like if Chris were to go blind.

Thomas really, really hates his life.

Somehow thinking this makes him feel even worse, because Miro is the one whose lost his sight after 37 years of sight, and now he feels so ridiculously selfish, for hating his life when Miro is the one who should be hating everything and who probably _is_ hating everything but Miroslav Klose is one of the most selfless people in the world, and he has not said a word about it ever since that morning when Thomas woke up and found him crying.

And he, Thomas Müller, is incredibly selfish.

He hates himself more now.

Philipp Lahm returns to the locker rooms to call them back out for a scrimmage and finds Thomas Müller enveloped by Manuel Neuer's arms, crying into his shoulder with no sign of stopping.

• • •

Miroslave Klose does not like people to feel sorry for him. He doesn't like the _you're such an inspiration to blind people_ s and the _what a terrible thing to happen to you_ s when they come by, from the Starbucks employee coming out of the break room bundling up her green apron while pulling down her national team jersey, to the little boy pulling on his mother's dress as they enter the shop, and it makes his blood boil.

 _Am I really different now that I'm blind?_ he thinks, rubbing his hand against the cardboard cup sleeve of his coffee. 

The doorbell rings and moments later, Miro hears the scraping of the chair across from him and feels the shift of light across his face. "Hi, Philipp," he says, automatically. 

"You don't even need me to introduce myself now," Philipp says. "You're getting good."

Miro smiles wryly, standing up to exchange a hug with Philipp. "How've you been?"

Philipp laughs. "Nearing retirement."

"You're still young." Miro takes a sip of his coffee. "You've got, what, another four years. At least."

They fall silent as their minds both turn to Miro's untimely retirement.

"So how have _you_ been?" Philipp asks, speaking to the cup. Both of them, wary of the public, are fixed on their drinks, shielding their faces with their coffees. "How are things with Thomas?"

He knows he's struck a nerve, the way Miro stiffens and becomes oddly intrigued by his coffee. He really needs to Miro about that too - it's become less and less convincing every time Miro becomes thoroughly interested in examining the contents of his cup when he's blind and can't see a thing - but this time he gives the benefit of the doubt. 

"They're okay," Miro replies, stiffly.

Philipp doesn't know what to say. There's no way that hug Manuel gave Thomas was just friendly, the way Thomas was crying and the way Manuel was murmuring words in Thomas's ear. Have Thomas and Miro broken up? That seems impossible, given that they've been official for at least five years now and everyone knows they were already madly in love at the 2010 Cup (except for Mario, who is too young and innocent to know anything). And what is that supposed to mean about Manuel? That he's broken up with Christoph? That also seems impossible to Philipp. Maybe something changed over the last international break.

"What do you look like?" Miro asks. His voice is barely a whisper.

Philipp hesitates. Puts two and two together. "Is that what happened with Thomas?"

Miro shakes his head first, and then he begins to cry.

• • •

Thomas doesn't usually stay at the training facility longer than he needs to. But it's seven when his phone first rings, and he ignores it and keeps running. He runs and runs and runs, and he imagines himself in one of those movies where the main character gets pissed off at their mom or something for some little shit like moving and they just take off on a run around the neighborhood, and that's him right now. Running around the neighborhood, with music blasting and heaving breathing and a cramp in his side from running on the treadmill for so long without a break. 

Except he's not even running around the neighborhood. He's running in place. On a treadmill. He's stuck.

The night crew chases him out at eight, and he regrets taking the train earlier today because now he has to deal with people, and that's the last thing he wants to deal with, so he forces his sunglasses on and boils in the corner seat of the train. The disbelief has vanished, but now in its place is solid anger and frustration.

• • •

Miroslav Klose prides himself on his self-control. It's been twenty - no, almost twenty-five - years since he last lost it. Since he really just lost it. And it would be a shame to end that record for himself, but as he sits on their bed and rubs his hand along the fabric of the bedspread, all he wants to do is scream.

The door opens, and he hears the clank of keys landing on the granite countertop, and the thump of Thomas's bag in the corner of the foyer. He hears Thomas's footsteps, coming down the hall, hears them stop at the doorway. 

Miro is turned around, searching for Thomas. Thomas looks at his face and wonders how he ever could have been so angry.

• • •

They lose themselves that night in a tangle of limbs and breathless kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what this chapter is tbh i just let my hands run wild and apparently they wanted thomas and miro making out so i guess there's that??????????????????????????????
> 
> story time: ao3 deleted the ending of this chapter twice. always keep a backup file. i was about to murder something. someone. who knows. someone could write a fic about me and my fics. (no don't)
> 
> thank you so much for all your lovely comments, they make me very happy! i hope you enjoyed this one . . . ehhhh . . . wasn't really feeling it the second/third time around on the ending but whatever i guess?


	3. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both know they can't do anything, but that won't stop them from trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING THERE'S SORT OF A LOT OF FLUFF COMING UP THIS IS THE FLUFFIEST CHAPTER IN THE FIC PROBABLY

It's barely seven when Thomas wakes up. The curtains are open, the window open by just a few inches, and he can hear the swoosh of cars as they drive by on the street, watch the shadows of the trees by the window dancing along the wall, widening until they join with the side of the wall cast in shadow. He can look at the swirling dust in the air and the shimmery rays of light glowing around the window.

Spring is his favorite season, Thomas decides. The months should be renamed so that January 1st is the first day of spring, like a new beginning. It feels like a new beginning now, fresh air laced with a sharp chill breezing through the room, tickling the edges of the curtains, blowing them in so that they billow around like the skirt of some goddess. The air around them is still cold with the remnants of March, but there's a warmth there from Miro's head, drawn towards Thomas and resting on the join of his shoulder and his chest. A tickle of his warm breath on his ribs. 

Thomas draws the covers up a bit further and wraps his arm around Miro protectively. Who cares if Miro's blind, he thinks, we still love each other. It's a reaffirmation that's been getting him through the last two years, and no doubt has been driving Miro as well. Lying in bed with his chest as Miro's pillow and the covers keeping them warm, Thomas feels like this is the best they've been in the two years since the accident. His anger, his disbelief - both of them have faded, replaced with the feeling of their lingering kisses from last night and a Utopian sensation of peace. Contentment. 

_But then why doesn't it feel like it?_

In the immediate aftermath of the accident, Miro had been a wreck, mentally. So had Thomas, to an extent, but _he_ wasn't the one who'd lost his sight. He was an outsider. He couldn't ever hope to fully understand what had happened for Miro. The hospital's psychiatrists, though, apparently felt differently and assumed that because the psychiatrists had a title before their name and a few letters and framed degrees on the walls of their offices, they knew exactly what was happening and so both Thomas and Miro had been subjected to two months of weekly sessions with a psychiatrist in their little dinky office, decorated with busts of philosophers and God knows what else that made them seem infinitely more sophisticated and erudite than they already were, on the fifth floor. And they'd been subjected, in one of these sessions, to a full run-through of the five stages of grief, and Thomas realized that despite their professional talk and fancy capillary-action fountain pens, this psychiatrist knew what she was talking about for sixty minutes of their lives. 

Reflecting on that now, Thomas realizes again that she was right. He dismissed it at the time as something that happened in some circumstances but not all, and just thought it was interesting, but now he thinks about the last twenty-four months. Several months of denial, followed by the sudden anger last night, and he knows at this point that a stage of bargaining comes next, and now Thomas wonders why he ruined the beautiful scene of spring, because he now he knows that the empty feeling is coming from a longing to try and change something.

• • •

Miro wakes up naturally. He knows it's late morning from the warm heat on his face, but Thomas is still there, his pillow under his head. 

"Hi," Thomas says softly, when Miro tilts his head up at him. 

"Don't you have training?" Miro asks. 

Thomas shakes his head. "Not today." 

"What time is it?"

There's a pause and some shifting as Thomas reaches over to the nightstand to check his phone. "Almost nine."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since seven, maybe."

Miro sits up. "How long have you just been lying there? You could have woken me up, you know."

"It's fine." Thomas smiles lazily. "I like lying here."

"Well, I'm going to go get something to eat," Miro says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and picking his shirt off the floor. 

"No," Thomas whines, reaching out for Miro's shoulder. "Stay."

Miro stops halfway through pulling his shirt back on and turns his head. "You're so lazy," he says endearingly, smiling as Thomas sits up and wraps his arms around his waist. 

"I just like sleeping with you," Thomas murmurs, burying his face in the join between Miro's shoulder and neck. "Stay."

Miro is about to pull away, but Thomas is there, his hands wandering under the hem of his shirt, and he ends up turning around.

• • •

It's noon by the time they're both out of bed. There's no use in eating breakfast now, so Miro sits at the counter while Thomas roots around in the cupboards.

"You don't have to cook," he says, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

"There's nothing good in here," Thomas says, frowning, ignoring him. "Wanna go out?"

"Out?" Miro repeats, dumbly. They don't go out much - much less together - for anything social that amounts to more than a cup of coffee and a chat, unless it's specifically related professionally. For one thing, no one on the team in general is really open about their relationship in general - with the exception of probably Bastian and Lukas - it's more of a thing kept low-profile, known by team members and friends but pretty ambiguous to anyone outside of family. Even Jogi isn't entirely sure who's a confirmed couple. "You want to go out?"

"Just pick up some food and go somewhere else to eat," Thomas says. "Like a picnic. We can go visit horses if you want."

Miro fixes Thomas with a look that seems like it would be impossible to get with sightless eyes, but he manages it. "Thomas, I am not going to ride horses."

Thomas shrugs. "I never said ex _pli_ citly that we'd ride horses. Just that maybe we'd see them."

"We can go out if you want, though," Miro says, ignoring Thomas's fervent obsession with horses.

They end up, out in a grassy field, doing nothing but sitting there, for a while. Miro just sits with his face turned to the sun, like a flower. It's been a while since he's been outside, actually, just for the sake of being outside. The sun is warmer and brighter here than when he stands at the window, and it makes him realize just _how much he's missed this_. How much he's missed being able to see. He's yearning just to see the sky and the sun and everything. He can smell the grass around them, he can feel it tickling his arms and legs, he can even hear it, every time a breeze comes by and it makes the rustling sounds, but all he wants to do is just _see_ it. Two years. Just a weird fuzzy screen in front of his eyes.

"Miro?" Thomas asks softly.

He turns his head. "What?"

"You're crying."

Miro lifts a hand to his face, feeling a tear on his cheek. He exhales, letting out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, and brushes it off. "It's nothing," he says. "I just miss you."

Thomas is quiet for a moment. Miro thinks he hears him sniffing. "I didn't mean to upset you," he says, quietly.

Thomas shakes his head, even though Miro can't see him. "It's okay," he says, wiping his face and glancing up at the sun to blink away the tears in his eyes. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Miro moves closer and reaches for Thomas's hand, and then for Thomas's face. He cups his cheek in his palm and smiles wistfully. "Oh, Thomas. I could never forget you."

Thomas moves forward until their foreheads touch. "Even when we're both old?"

Miro smiles. "Even then." 

For a moment, they're suspended in a time from two years ago. Some time when Miro wasn't blind and when they were both at Bayern and both playing on the national team and they are together and perfect and the exemplar of a perfect couple and all their teammates laughed at how in love they were but at the same time wished they could be that relationship. For a moment, Thomas is giggling stupidly and Miro is smiling fondly. For a moment, they forget.

The moment is over within seconds, though. The spell is broken.

They enjoy their sandwiches in the field of grass.

• • •

Thomas finds, more than anything, that he just wants the old Miro. Their relationship now feels too burdened with the changes of the last two years. Like they can't have what they used to have.

But they can, right? he asks himself, staring up at the ceiling in the dark and listening to Miro breathe. They spent the entire first half of the day in bed, in each other's arms. Something they did back then. Hell, they spent an entire _day_ throwing longing looks back and forth and grinning at each other today. That was the exact same.

Thomas finds himself unbelievably selfish for having so much and still wanting more.

• • •

Miro wakes up in the middle of the night from an unbelievably overwhelming feeling of loneliness. He wants to move, but he's also too tired to do so and he likes the way the covers fall on him right now, so he just lies there and listens to Thomas's breathing.

He didn't realize you could be in a relationship like this with someone and still feel so lonely. Empty. Sad. Like the first time he went out with a girl in high school and realized that it didn't make him excited at all to kiss her. At least, not the same excited that he felt when the boy in year-six with the hazel eyes and ebony hair and the sculpted face bumped into him in the hallway. He remembers thinking he just hadn't found the right girl yet. How he spent all of his first date with Silke Dürr, the girl with eyes like the Northern Lights in the sky and chestnut hair that could have belonged to a goddess, _all of it_ , in nervous anticipation of kissing her and when he _finally_ did it at the end of the night, leaving her smiling at her doorstep, there'd been a thrilling moment of accomplishment, followed by a feeling of dissatisfaction with how unfulfilling the whole thing felt, followed by a week or so of confusion and this empty, lonely feeling in his heart. That kiss was nowhere near as exciting as the awkward incident in the hallway.

That's how he feels now, he thinks. He wants something more. He wants to revisit the days before the accident. And he knows this is incredibly selfish. How there are probably people dying right now, or fighting for their lives, or being stripped of their organs because there's nothing left of them, not even their brains, nothing except a shell and a heart beating with a machine - these people, all probably in their current situation because of an accident like his, but they're dead. They've lost the battle. And he's _won_. He's still alive. He still has all his memories. He has someone who loves him and would probably use himself as a human shield for him. 

Miroslav Klose, in the grand scheme of things, is incredibly lucky.

So why does he still want more?

• • •

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh sorry i know this is really short and kind of sketchy/crappy but bargaining is kind of a short stage for them and it'll probably be made up for in depression and acceptance. i've decided whether i want a sad or happy ending :^)))) so i'm excited to write those two


	4. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miro and Thomas fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know how you'll like it but i hope it's not too dramatic or cheesy or whatever. keep in mind that i was laughing manically the whole time i was writing this and my classmates just stared at me in horror. :)))

Philipp Lahm retires from professional playing after they win the Bundesliga for the record-breaking sixth time in a row, after his fifteenth full season at Bayern, at thirty-five years old. They have a party for celebration a week after the Meisterfeier. It's the end of an era. If Philipp is retiring, it can only mean that Bastian would be retiring and returning home within the next five years. His retirement means he won't be playing in Bastian's last match either. The team already misses him as they raise their glasses in toast to him.

"I've missed playing with you," Miro says, over the sound of general chatter in the room. They're seated at the dining table in the kitchen, each with a bottle of beer. "I can't believe I ever moved from Bayern."

Philipp sighs. "I've missed playing with you too. Especially after the World Cup." He takes a sip. "We had good times at Bayern and on the national team, though."

"We did," Miro affirms, rolling his bottle on the edge of the bottom, wheeling it in circles around the table in front of him. "You retiring from everything is crazy."

"Like you retiring wasn't," Philipp snorts, folding his arms. 

"Yeah," Miro says. 

They fall silent. Thomas joins them a moment later and it's obvious that he's been drinking a bit. "Hey Miro," he sings drunkenly, slinging his arm around Miro's shoulders. "How's it going?"

Miro pries the bottle out from Thomas's fingers and sets it on the table in front of them. "Still sober," he says, patting Thomas's shoulder. "Unlike some people."

"I'm just having a beer," Thomas says, his speech slurring slightly. 

"I'm sure you're having multiple," Miro says, moving the bottle further out of Thomas's reach. He and Philipp exchange a look. "Is he like this at training?"

"He's like this even when he's sober," Philipp mutters. 

Miro nods. "True."

"So how's it going with you?"

Miro sighs, shrugging. "It's going. It's going. Alright, I suppose. I still miss playing in general. I never really got to finish off."

There's another pregnant silence. They both stare into their bottles until Manuel and Christoph join them and the topic changes completely.

• • •

Miro finds himself completely disinterested in everything. It's like Philipp retiring has reminded him exactly how much longer he could have gone, even though he's quite a bit older. He still could have played for a while longer. He misses football, but he doesn't want to play anymore. Reading has become dull. Eating has become dull. Everything is dull and he's really not excited to do anything. 

Even Thomas has become dull, he finds one night in late July when Thomas comes home late and slides into bed and notifies him of his arrival via a kiss and his arms snaking around. They kiss, but Miro doesn't really know what he's doing and he's really bad at faking it, because Thomas draws back suddenly and rolls onto his back and they sleep like that for the first time in a long time, separate from each other, not touching, on opposite sides of the bed, tugging against the bedcovers. 

When he wakes up the next morning, the other side is empty. Thomas's clothes are gone, off the floor, so he assumes he's gone to training. He sits up, puts his shirt on, and walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

He trips over it as he's walking back to their room: Thomas's training bag in the corner of the foyer, which can only mean he's not actually at training, that either there's no training today or there is and he's skipping out. Either way, he's not at training, so he got up early in the morning for something other than that, and this worries Miro.

It's scary how little he cares though. He's more worried about not being totally wracked with concern for Thomas than actual worry over him. _Fine_ , he thinks bitterly, climbing back into bed. _Let him leave._

He's not gone, though. Miro wakes up again at two in the afternoon to find that Thomas is back. He lies in bed for a while, covers pulled up over his shoulders and facing the wall, listening to the sound of him in the kitchen. Then footsteps coming towards their room. Coming towards the bed. The mattress sinks a bit as Thomas sits on the bed. Miro waits with bated breath until he feels the mattress shift again, and then he opens his eyes and rolls onto his back.

"I thought you were asleep," Thomas says from next to him. Miro has to hide a faint shock of surprise when he hears his voice still in the room. 

"I thought you left the room," he says, after a moment.

They stay like that for a while, Miro on his back with his eyes open at the ceiling; Thomas with his back against the headboard and head tilted upwards. Finally Thomas breaks the silence. "Why do you hate me?" he asks.

Miro turns his head. "I don't hate you," he says automatically. 

"You didn't want to kiss me last night."

"I was tired," he lies. 

"Want something to eat?" Thomas suggests, playing with the corner of the bedsheets.

Miro shakes his head.

"Have you been in here all day?"

He pauses. "I guess. There's not really much else I want to do."

"Have you eaten at _all_ today?" When Miro doesn't answer, Thomas nearly jumps out of bed. "Miro, how can you just not eat for sixteen hours? Are you sick?" he demands.

"No, I'm not sick." Miro sighs and turns his head the other way. "Can you just leave me alone?"

Thomas draws back suddenly. Miro doesn't normally just tell him to leave him alone. Most of the time, they can't get enough of each other. The close-ended question leaves him feeling shocked and incredibly _scared_ , like something about Miro is changing rapidly and he can't stop it at all. Maybe, finally, after eight years of being stupidly in love with each other, Miro is finally beginning to fall out of love.

• • •

"Earth to Thomas," Robert calls, as the ball he sends in Thomas's direction rolls straight past Thomas. "Are you okay?"

Thomas refocuses, chasing after the ball and controlling it before shooting it in the goal. "Yeah? Why?"

"You've been way zoned-out since training started again. You're not even aiming in the right direction."

Manuel, standing in goal, groans. "Oh, no. He says he's fine, but he's really not. This was a thing two years ago," he explains to Robert, ignoring the indignant looks Thomas throws at him. "Is it Miro again?"

Thomas bites his lip and shakes his head stiffly. "No," he says adamantly, kicking the ball up in the air and volleying it at the goal, where Manuel stops it easily with a simple catch. "It's not him."

"That means it _is_ him," Manuel stage-whispers to Robert, shaking his head at Thomas. "Thomas, you're a horrible liar."

"No I'm not," Thomas whines defensively. "I'm perfectly believable."

"Ha! It _is_ a problem with Miro."

"Why do you always find it so necessary to know every detail? Can't I just be sad in peace?"

Manuel raises an eyebrow. "So number one, something really big has gone down, and number two, _this_ whole display - " he pauses, gestures at his face, makes a bunch of eye signals that are supposed to mean God knows what to Robert, and shoots a sympathetic look at Thomas " - with the distracted far-off look is you being sad." He thinks for a bit. "Jesus. You must be really sad."

"Spill the beans," Robert says.

"You sound just like Manu."

Robert rolls his eyes. "Uh, because we're your friends. Now continue talking."

"It's nothing important," Thomas says. 

"Clearly, it's very important," Manuel corrects. "You look more sad than when we lost the Champions League a million years ago. And you literally cannot tear your mind away from it."

"Well, yeah," Thomas huffs, "because it's Miro!"

Robert looks unimpressed. "I think we figured that part out."

"What about Miro?" Manuel presses.

Thomas narrows his eyes at them. "Can't you just leave it alone for once?"

Robert and Manuel exchange a glance. "Thomas, if it were something small like a little fight between you and Miro, we'd leave you alone. But the last time I saw you this distracted it was because Miro forgot what you looked like."

"My eyes," Thomas corrects. He's not really sure why that, to this day, is what hurts the most. Maybe because it's the first thing Miro forgot about him. The fact that Miro, over the span of the last three and a half years or so, has gradually forgotten what he looks like makes Thomas feel like he's the same as anyone else. Lost with everyone else in a whirlwind of indistinct features and confusing heights. 

"Your eyes. Fine," Manuel says, shaking his head again. "But that was a while ago. What's up with it now?"

Robert nods seriously, watching Thomas as he begins a game of keep-up. 

Thomas sighs. "I don't think Miro loves me anymore."

The ball drops almost immediately when Manuel loses focus and he and Robert stare at Thomas together. 

" _What?_ " Robert asks incredulously, kicking the ball back into the air and sending it to Thomas. "What makes you think that?" He doesn't know Miro as well as some of the other members who've played alongside him on Bayern or the national team, but they've talked about Poland a few times, and every time he's seen Thomas at gatherings or parties, they've been on each other's arms; it's not hard for him - or anyone else, for that matter - to tell the two of them are in love. Or were. Whatever Thomas means by saying Miro doesn't love him anymore. 

"Yeah," Manuel agrees. "That's quite a conclusion to be drawing. What led up to that? Did you guys have a fight?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Not exactly." 

The ball bounces around a few more times before Robert finally says, "What?"

"What?" 

"You said not exactly. So what 'exactly' is it?" 

Thomas shrugs and makes a vague gesture. "Remember when I skipped training two weeks ago?"

Manuel raises his eyebrows for what seems like the millionth time (although to be fair to him, there's a lot of new developments suddenly occurring that he never thought about). "Yeah?"

"The night before that when I got home I got into bed and I kissed him like I normally do - "

"Where'd you kiss him?" Robert interrupts. 

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know. Woj gets really suspicious when I kiss him anywhere but his mouth first."

"That's kind of demanding - "

"I know, right?"

" - but also probably completely irrelevant to what Thomas is telling us about him and Miro. So shut up and listen," Manuel finishes. 

"I kissed him where I normally do, I guess?" Thomas says, his voice trailing off in confusion of where this conversation is even going. "I don't know, nothing was really different. It was the same it normally is. But he wasn't really into it."

"Were you forcing him into it?"

"What? No!" Thomas almost fumbles the ball. "No, it's not like that. I kissed him, and then he kissed me back, but he just wasn't into it."

Robert takes control of the ball. "Okay, so he was just doing a really bad job of faking it."

"Yeah. And it was like he wasn't even trying. He wasn't interested or anything. And normally even if we don't do that we - " Thomas has to force the words out because they sound so weird and foreign, even now, " - do a cuddling thing."

Robert looks unimpressed. "Spooning?" 

"Sure, I guess."

"And you didn't do that?"

Thomas nods.

Manuel squints and cocks a brow. "Are you sure that's quite the grounds to conclude he doesn't love you anymore?"

He shakes his head. "No, so I got up the next day to go to training, but I just couldn't go, so I went out for a walk to nowhere in particular for a few hours and then I went back to our place and had lunch, and then I went to go see where Miro was and he was still in bed, and I felt bad for the night before so I sat down and he rolled over and I asked him if he hated me - "

Robert looks up. "What did he say?"

"He said no."

"There you are, then."

"But I asked him if he wanted to eat because he hadn't eaten anything that day and I asked if he was getting sick, you know, just as a precaution, and he just told me to leave me alone! Am I being clingy?"

Manuel snorts. It's no secret that there's a running joke that Thomas is always in on a conversation and can never shut up, but it's not like that's a really annoying problem, because he's _Thomas_ , and when he talks it's full of stupid puns and jokes and not pretentious at all, just Thomas being a childish idiot. People that don't know him might think he's clingy, but after more than five years on a team with him, Manuel is used to his banter and, like Robert and the rest of them, enjoy it. That's what it is: a joke. Nothing more than a laughable quality about Thomas. "I don't think that's clingy," he says, looking at Robert. "Do you?"

"Mario does it all the time to Marco, even when we were at Dortmund," Robert says, "and Marco doesn't look like it bothers him. I think he _likes_ it."

"Yeah, but Marco is also our age," Thomas points out. "He's ten years younger than Miro."

"More," Manuel corrects. "I think that's well-grounded concern for Miro."

"Oh my God," Thomas whispers in horror, letting the ball drop to the ground, forgotten. "Then that means Miro really does hate me."

Manuel and Robert exchanged glances that clearly say _how in the fuck did he get to that idea so quickly?_ and turn to face Thomas.

"I don't think that's the right idea," Robert says, but Thomas is already halfway back to the locker rooms.

• • •

When the team returns to the locker rooms to change, Manuel and Robert find that Thomas has already left.

• • •

For the last two weeks, Miroslav Klose has barely left the bedroom of his and Thomas's shared residence, let alone gone out of the house. Whenever Thomas asks, he says he's getting tired faster and makes up a lame excuse about feeling old. He spends most of the time in bed, sleeping or feeling miserable. He's not even bored. He just wants to lie there and do nothing.

He knows it's not healthy to eat so sporadically and to mostly just drink water, and he knows that Thomas knows. Over the last two weeks, Thomas has been eating _in_ the bedroom, where he knows Miro will be able to smell his food and hear him chewing, in an attempt to coax him to eat (he stopped asking Miro if he was hungry after about a week). They don't really talk anymore. Miro doesn't want to talk, and from Thomas's obliging silence, it seems like Thomas would rather not talk, even if this leaves an uncomfortably tangible tension in the air between them.

Two weeks. Like this.

• • •

If Manuel and Robert could see this, could _live_ it, they would agree in a heartbeat that some horrible twist or kink has been thrown into their relationship. Manuel would say to end it, Robert would say to stick it out. Or perhaps both would say to stick it out. But whatever advice they have for Thomas or Miro alike is kept to themselves.

• • •

Thomas leaves training early. He could care less about it right now. He thinks about getting in his car and just _driving_ , but once he's in he starts crying, and once he starts he can't stop, so he spends the rest of training sitting in the car crying, slamming his head (although slamming has a connotation a little too strong for what Thomas would consider what he's doing; it's more like he's just gently banging his head) against the steering wheel and feeling generally miserable and pathetic. He hates this. He hates the uncertainty and the knowledge that if he confronts Miro he'll just say that _no, I don't hate you, Thomas_ and he'll be left wondering and it'll just be an endless cycle of wondering and being confused and they'll just live together in utter silence until Miro probably decides he doesn't want to live with Thomas anymore and they'll separate and _everything will be over_.

At some point, though, Thomas looks up and stops crying and glances in the rearview mirror and sees David coming out into the parking lot, and he forces himself to wipe his eyes, take a few deep breaths, and pull out of the lot before either Manuel or Robert can come looking for him.

He still cries as he drives.

• • •

Miro decides with resolution that he's done with this. He's done with being miserable and sad and unhappy in his little hole and probably making Thomas feel like shit, and so he takes his phone and uses vocal recognition to send Thomas a text message. If he's going to be miserable and sad and unhappy, then he might as well let Thomas be not miserable and not sad and happy. Then he changes for the first time in two weeks and leaves his corner of the world without Thomas by his side for the first time in a very long time, to revisit the spot where his life fell apart.

• • •

When his phone buzzes, Thomas is half-interested, mostly unexcited. It's probably an email or a reminder text about training schedules, or Manuel or Robert or one of the staff demanding to know why he left training early. They can wait, he thinks, turning the corner and continuing through the streets. He's still crying a bit, nearly fifteen minutes later. At the next red light, he stops and rubs his eyes a bit. He can't look sad when he gets home.

But who cares? It's not like Miro's going to know. This thought sets Thomas off in an entirely new set of tears, and he feels so stupid and childish because this is not what he does: he doesn't sob like an idiot, and he can't remember the last time he did. The light turns green, and he tries to blink them away, and the next light is red, which he's glad for because it will give him yet another chance to clean up, but this is as hopeless as the last attempt because he knows this is where it happened, where their lives began to fall apart and _their life_ , the one he and Miro had together, began to fall apart and disintegrate into nothing. This place. 

He slows down as he approaches the light, takes a deep breath, sniffs up all the lame snot he's somehow generated, and wipes his eyes partially before the car behind him honks impatiently and he glances in the rearview mirror with a glare of pure venom (as sharp as it can get when he's still puffy-eyed) while accelerating again.

A moving form in front of him sends his foot back on the brake.

He was too slow. 

• • •

In the split second before he can fully register a shock, Miroslav Klose remembers the colors of Thomas Müller's eyes.

• • •

Sitting in the hospital with the weight of uncertainty and everything that just happened drowning him, Thomas finally stops crying for a minute in order to get it together a bit and send the team a message telling them he won't be at training tomorrow.

Something stops him. Distracts him from his intent.

_Don't ever think I don't love you, Thomas._

• • •

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	5. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i love making playlists so i'd definitely suggest listening to Brahms Intermezzo Op 117 (i think) in A Major, Liszt's Liebestraume, and First Day of My Life while reading this just because all three feel sad to me and idk why but they're sad in a good way?????? 
> 
> or, shameless self-plug, there's always the never fall again playlist on 8tracks by @/clariteas (meeeeeee) which is a mash up of honestly the prettiest piano pieces but whatever i'm a cheese 
> 
> kind of short and sweet i guess? try not to cry :))))

Thomas learns, with some bitter humor, that Miro has been more prevalent in his life than either of them ever realized. 

It takes him less than a minute.

• • •

The last time he spent a span of more than just a few hours at the hospital, it was for Miro, after the first accident that left him blind. When he couldn't see Miro, he spent it out in the hallway, with some ambiguous uncertainty just lingering over his head as he tried to get a few minutes of a simple nap, curling into the itchy, ugly upholstery whilst wondering how they were going to make it work.

Now he's here, at the same hospital, just like last time. Except last time, he remembers that moment when the doctor was waiting for him and he thought he was going to see Miro dead but he _wasn't_ , and he had that going for him, the realization that Miro was still alive.

He knows Miro isn't dead. That much, he knows. He knows that doctors and nurses don't blab medical jargon when patients die; they're supposed to sit you down and explain very slowly, in laymen's terms, that someone has deceased. But words like _noxious stimuli_ have no place in condolences, even from people who don't even know you besides your medical history. 

But this is where all the patients go to die.

And somehow, he thinks, as he reads over the clipboard with the lone form on it and uncaps the pen, this is worse. 

• • •

Thomas Müller gets on Miroslav Klose's radar when he is nothing more than a shrimpy nineteen year-old substitute - not physically, but mentally. He's nothing more than a rookie, even with all his under-x team experience. Although Miro has seen him in training and knows he has plenty of potential, he's not entirely on-board with the choice of substitution as he jogs to the bench and high-fives Thomas. 

Thomas, who has spent the entire pre-season training and games hoping to catch Miro's eye, finds himself excited over something as simple as that high-five. It's practically the highlight of his week - the fact that _he_ was the one to be substituted on for Miro. No, it's not that. It's not making his actual first official Bundesliga debut. It's literally just the thrill of Miro running towards him and flashing him a reassuring smile for luck and that moment of burning contact. 

Like _he noticed me_.

_He knows I exist._

• • •

He can't sign the form yet, not without a witness besides the nurse. So, phone in hand, scrolling through the list of contacts, he thinks about who he wants, in his darkest hour, to be with him.

Without thinking, Thomas calls the number of the first name that floods his mind.

He realizes his idea is completely flawed when Miro's phone in front of him, screen cracked but intact, rings.

• • •

The summer of 2010, when he is called up for the national team, is one of the most exciting moments in Thomas's career. Or his life. There's no clear defining line anymore. 

Miroslav Klose, with the guidance of the list of contact information on the team roster, calls him to congratulate him.

• • •

He ends up calling Lisa.

Lisa Trede is still Lisa Trede, but when she arrives at the hospital, he sees the ring on her finger. He's not surprised. It's been a while.

She walks into the hallway with searching eyes and slightly parted lips and Thomas wonders why he ever left her, why he ever said she wasn't the one for him because when she sees him she's not afraid to open her arms immediately, and she lets Thomas cry all over her cardigan without even pulling a face or saying a word, she just rubs his back comfortingly and hides his face with her hair. Because she's Lisa and that's _all that Lisa does_ , is to be unselfish and sweet, and he doesn't know how long ago they ended it but this feels just like then, with his face in her shoulder and her chin on his head and it's horribly ironic, he thinks, that he should end his relationship with Miroslav Klose the same way he started it, with tears and Lisa Trede, the childhood sweetheart that never was.

• • •

Miroslav Klose announces his transfer to SS Lazio in June of 2011.

On the same day, Thomas Müller chips his countertop with a fruit knife while peeling his orange.

Several hundred miles away, on holiday, Miroslav Klose looks a picture from the 2010 World Cup and evicts a photograph from a frame to replace it with the World Cup photo.

• • •

Thomas is shaking so hard that he can't even sign the paper, and so Lisa squats down in front of him and wraps her hands around his and forces him to look her in the eyes.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to, Thomas," she says softly, and this is the first full sentence he's heard from her in person in a very long time. He didn't realize how much he missed her voice. It feels like he's betraying Miro.

"I have to," he says. His voice cracks. 

"You don't." She pulls the pen out of his grip, where it leaves little indents on his fingers from how hard he was gripping it and stares at him, point-blank. "You don't have to pull the plug. You have a privilege that most people don't. You could afford it, if you wanted."

Thomas shakes his head. "What would be the point? He's - _we've_ \- been living like this for the last four years, and this is how we ended up here. I have to, Lisa, if I really love him."

Lisa looks at him and _there it is again_ , Thomas thinks, _why couldn't we have just been us? When did Miro have to enter the picture?_ he thinks he can see tears in her eyes, but whether it's her wondering if he could've ever loved her the same way it's obvious he loves Miro, or if it's actually just compassion and second-hand hurt, because this is Lisa Trede, the girl who cried because they ran out of carrots once in the barn and the white horse in the last stable had to make do with one fewer than the rest, the girl who - _oh God, here it comes again_ \- Thomas ran to every time something else just fucked up in his life, right up until he realized he couldn't run to her anymore. 

And now here they are, her running to him because he's reached a point where he can't do the running.

• • •

Miroslav Klose is the first one to say _I love you_.

It happens after Thomas calls him after the first training at Bayern without him, when he says it's not quite the same and they miss him, they miss Miroslav Klose, when he says _he_ misses him and the first game of the season won't be the same.

Miro chuckles wryly, a rush of static on the phone. "I miss you too, Thomas," he says, after a while.

"Why'd you leave?" Thomas feels childish.

There's another silence. "My time at Bayern was over."

"Not for me," he whispers into the phone.

"Oh, Thomas," Miro says endearingly. His voice is the best thing Thomas could ever imagine, even on the phone. "Don't you know I love you?"

• • •

It takes him a minute to make up his mind, and nearly thirty to sign the form, but when that's done, there's still the final step.

Thomas holds his hand over Miro's heart like it'll somehow make everything easier, like holding it right up until the end will someone make sure that Miro will always be his.

He finds, about twenty gradually slowing heartbeats after flipping the respirator, that he doesn't want to feel like he was the last person to know Miro alive. He takes his hand off.

If he were still holding his hand there, he would find that the next beat is Miro's last.

It doesn't matter anyway. It shows up on the monitors, and Lisa wraps him in her arms again and squeezes her eyes shut like it'll shut out the pain of listening to the first boy she ever loved lose his heart.

• • •

Thomas spends the day at Lisa's place. She introduces him to her husband when they get there, in the early morning, when he's rushing off to work and he doesn't even care why his wife is returning from a night away with a former boyfriend.

• • •

She suggests that he stay with them, but Thomas refuses. 

He goes home to an empty place. It's just _his_ place now. Not his and Miro's. His.

He's not sure if he'd rather hear silence or Miro trying to suppress a cry.

He climbs in bed. It's not fall yet, but he's cold. Pulling the covers up around him only makes him realize that in the years of sharing a bed with someone else, he's forgotten what it's like to have all the covers to himself. The absence of another body to curl up with keeps him awake until finally, he wraps Miro's old pillow in his arms and falls asleep dreaming that the pillow is a living, breathing person.

• • •

He dreams. 

At first it's a dream that he wants more of, that he hungers for, and that, in his subconscious, if he tries hard enough, will come true. Maybe he'll be lost in this dream forever. Thomas _wants_ to be lost in this dream forever, so he'll never have to wake up and see the flat mattress next to him without any hint that anyone was sleeping there. But then, when Dream Thomas reaches out to touch Dream Miro, Dream Miro does nothing but scatter into steam and mist, and the more he tries to touch Dream Miro, Dream Miro just becomes thinner and thinner, more diffused, until there's nothing left of him.

• • •

There's a part two to this dream, which involves a Thomas opening his eyes and a ghost that looks so strikingly like Miroslav Klose that Thomas reaches out to touch his face, see if it's real.

Ghost Miro shirks away. "I'm not real, Thomas," he says, with that fond smile of half-melancholy and half-love. "Don't ruin it for yourself."

Instead of making Thomas's heart break at the thought of him not really being alive, Thomas's heart leaps at the prospect of there being _another way_ , another Miro. So he sits there dumbly and tears up and finally whispers his name. "Miro?"

There's that smile again. "Yeah. It's me."

"I didn't mean to kill you," Thomas whispers, actually beginning to cry. "I didn't mean - "

Ghost Miro cuts him off. "I know you didn't, Thomas," he says softly. He sighs and looks away absently. "I'm not sure why I went outside. It's not your fault."

"But it's not _your_ fault either," Thomas says. His voice is fragile and broken. 

"It's no one's fault," Miro says, after a while. "Let's leave it at that."

There's silence until Thomas finally says, "I love you."

Miro smiles that _stupid fucking bittersweet smile again_ , his crystal eyes blinking slowly to avoid tears, a boundary Thomas has long passed. "I love you too, Thomas. But you have to remember, this is a dream. I won't see you again, and you won't see me."

"But that's not - "

"And you have to accept it, Thomas," Miro continues. "Because we couldn't accept what happened the first time around, and now look where we are. So if you really love me, Thomas - " he breaks off for a moment, here, snorts, stares into the distance and mutters _what a cliché_ , then resumes, " - please do that for me. Recognize that I am gone. Live a good life for me, please, if that's all you do."

Thomas can't even speak. It takes a massive amount of effort for him to force the words out of his dry, clogged throat. "I'll never love anyone the same way I love you," he says in a cracked breath. 

"I know, Thomas, I know."

They're both crying, now.

Miro reaches forward to cup Thomas's face and press one last kiss to his forehead.

• • •

Thomas wakes in the middle of the night in an odd silence where Miro's breathing is absent.

He lifts a few fingers to his face. There are tears on his cheeks.

He wipes them off on the pillow.

• • •

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here to ruin the mood is me admitting that i wrote this at 2:00 in the morning and it's almost 6 right now and it was an odd mixture of me laughing uncontrollably every time a thought of something to write followed by me crying so thERE ARE PROBABLY TYPOS but hush whatever
> 
> i think i'm using this for a short story assignment we got assigned yesterday in english ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ with some different names maybe so that the chelsea kid in my class won't be like wtf when he peer edits my paper but whO KNOWS
> 
> anyway that was a wild ride and pretty fun (although really heavy towards the end honestly i'm a little heavied out and to balance it out i'm planning an hs au, whOOooooOOoOps) and i'm so glad i wrote it and so glad that there are people who like it so thank you if you're reading this from the bottom of my heart, it means a lot to me! -xx char

**Author's Note:**

> is it bad if I make myself cry writing this


End file.
